Wild Wood

by Posie Graeme-Evans

The caption says it all. The Earl and Countess of Hundredfield at the Lorton Melbreak Hunt Ball.

  Jesse taps the page. “Alicia’s parents. I’ve seen a picture of them.” But the beautiful girl is no longer young in this picture and she’s too thin. And too tense.

  Rory doesn’t comment. “You’re sure that chair is comfortable?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Right, then. I think we’re sorted.”

  With the mic in place, Rory sits across the table, a pad and pen close to hand. “I’m going to keep this simple.”

  Jesse nods cautiously. “Okay. How simple?”

  He taps the reels. “Record everything and I’ll transcribe each night as we go. You responded really well in London to hypnosis, by the way.”

  “Yeah, right.” Jesse’s surprised.

  “You certainly did. An excellent subject. And if you’re agreeable, by using this same technique, I think we’ve got every chance of assessing how this odd situation has come about for you, and getting some answers.”

  Jesse puts the magazine down. She mutters, “Odd is right.”

  “So, I’ll ask questions under hypnosis, just as I did in London, and see what replies you give me; we’ll take it from there.”

  Jesse shifts uneasily. “But, Rory, I don’t know any more than you do. Less, in fact. You, at least, have some understanding of how a brain is supposed to work. And you know all about Hundredfield. I don’t.”

  “When I say you, I mean let’s ask your unconscious to explain what it knows. That’s what hypnosis does so well—it gets down there by bypassing your busy, workaday mind. I’m very confident we’ll obtain”—Rory pauses, thinks about the next phrase—“interesting material. At the very least.”

  “What about the drawings, though?”

  He says easily, “Jesse, the drawings were an anomaly, and anomalies by their nature aren’t usual. This one may have run its course as you’ve been healing. I’m more interested in the fact that you began to draw at all.”

  When he talks about the pictures, it feels to Jesse like thunder lurks, half heard, in the distance. They’re not close, the drawings, but not so far away, either.

  “Now, I want to be sure that you’re completely comfortable, completely at ease.” Rory’s voice alters. It’s softer, more even, and the tone has dropped to a deeper level. “And just to be sure, I’m going to cover your legs with a rug. Sitting for a while can make you cold. Is that all right?”

  Jesse nods. She sighs and her eyes begin to close as Rory unfolds a rug over her knees.

  Rory’s watching Jesse closely. “Are you ready for us to begin?” He’s completely focused now.

  “Yes.” The word is a sigh.

  “Very good. So, I’m turning the recorder on.” A click and the spools begin to turn. “And now I’ll identify the tape.”

  Rory clears his throat, “Sunday, June twenty-eighth, 1981, interview under hypnosis of Miss Jesse Marley conducted by Dr. Rory Brandon at Hundredfield, Northumberland”—he inspects his watch face—“commencing at eight forty-seven a.m.” He pauses to check the spools are turning correctly. “And now we shall begin.” He leans forward a little. “Jesse, I’m going to count from ten down to one, and when I reach the number one, your body will be asleep but your mind will be awake. You’ll be completely relaxed and ready to listen to my questions, a happy participant in our joint research. Nod if you understand.”

  Jesse nods, her head moving up and down like a sideshow doll’s. She goes on nodding, eyes closed, face at peace.

  “Good, Jesse, very good. You can stop nodding now.”

  Jesse stops and her head lolls back against the chair.

  “Ten. Feeling relaxed and happy. Nine. Happy and comfortable. So comfortable. Eight. You’re in a delightful place, a place you really love. Look around, familiarize yourself.” Jesse’s mouth curls happily, and Rory eases back in his chair. “That’s good. Seven. You’re standing at the top of a short flight of steps. You’d like to see what’s at the bottom. Six. Walk forward, there’s a light down there. Five. You walk from the top step to the next step, closer to the light. Happy and relaxed and interested. Four. Down one more, the light is brighter. Three. And the next; brighter still. Two. Walk down the last step. One. You’re at the bottom and the light is like warm water all around you. Like a child in her bath before bed, you feel secure and happy to be here. And completely relaxed. More relaxed than you’ve ever been before. Nod if you can hear me.”

  Jesse starts to nod.

  “Just once. That’s it.”

  Morning light models the cheekbones of Jesse’s face, and Rory smiles. She does look like a sleeping child. “Now, Jesse, I’m going to take you into the past. Only a little way, and you’ll enjoy the short journey we’ll take there together. We’re going back to the day of the accident in London.”

  Jesse shifts restlessly and her face changes, eyes moving quickly under closed lids.

  “Happy and relaxed, Jesse, because you’re just an observer and nothing can hurt you. Your life is like a movie you can watch anytime. You enjoy seeing the story unfold, and each time you see a little more. Different things. That’s better. So serene, so tranquil.”

  Jesse’s face is calm again.

  “Now, see yourself just before the accident. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

  “I’m nervous.”

  “Why do you feel nervous?”

  Jesse lifts her left arm. Her fingers curl as if she’s clutching something. “Because I’ve got this.”

  “Tell me what you have there. I can see it makes you happy.”

  A radiant smile. “Oh, it does. It’s my birth certificate, and when I open the envelope, I’ll know who I am. Who I really am. But I’m feeling scared too.”

  “Remember, absolutely nothing can hurt you. What happens next?”

  Her expression changes. “There’s a man. His name’s George. He’s very nice. He’s got a motorbike. But”—there’s almost a one-shouldered shrug—“he runs me over because I don’t look when I’m crossing the road. I try to explain it’s my fault, but he doesn’t listen. Everyone’s helping now. They’re all talking at once.” She flips a hand in front of her face, as if to brush away flies.

  “Don’t listen if it bothers you, Jesse. Where are you now?”

  “I’m on a bus. Now I’m in a church. It’s a beautiful place, but I don’t feel good. I’m falling.” She flutters fingers through the air. Her face is anxious. “Now . . .”

  “Are you somewhere different?”

  “Yes. I’m in hospital. My head is very sore, my shoulder too.” She winces.

  “But you’re not sore now, Jesse. There is no pain at all, and your shoulder will be healed very soon.” Rory makes a brief note. “Now we’ll go forward in time, just a few days. This will be an easy process and you’ll remember everything perfectly. Do you understand what I’m saying? Say yes if you do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, very good.” Rory leans closer again. “Jesse, why did you draw with your left hand when you came off the ventilator in hospital?”

  Jesse looks pleased. “Oh, that’s easy.”

  “It’s good that this question is an easy one.”

  He adjusts the mic fractionally, making sure it’s catching everything Jesse says. “So, why did you draw with your left hand?”

  “Well, I couldn’t draw with my right, could I?” Jesse points at her right shoulder. “It hurt too much.”

  “Yes. That’s true. A very good answer.”

  The sleeping girl smiles.

  “Here’s my next question. In the hospital, the first time we talked about it, you said something about drawing to me—do you remember what that was?”

  She nods. “I said I could not draw at all.”

  “That’s right. But yet, with your left hand . . .”

  Jesse’s face clears. “Oh, I understand. You don’t know why I can draw with my left hand?”

  “That’s correct. Why could you draw with
your left hand so well after the accident?”

  “Because that’s her hand. It’s not mine. She can draw, I can’t, so I let her use it.”

  In the silence that follows, the whir of the spools is suddenly clear. Rory coughs. “You’re still warm and comfortable and relaxed, Jesse. Body asleep, mind awake. Can you tell me who she is? The person who uses your hand.”

  Jesse puts her head on one side. She doesn’t say anything.

  “Did you hear the question, Jesse?”

  She puts a finger to her lips. “Shush.”

  “Why do you want me to be quiet?”

  Jesse turns her face toward him. “That’s a different question.”

  That eerie feeling washes over Rory again: a person without eyes is inspecting him. “It is. Let’s answer this one first, and then the other question, the one I asked just now. Why do you want me to be quiet?”

  She sighs patiently. “Because I’m listening. She’s telling me something but I can’t hear her when you speak.”

  Rory waits for a moment. Then says, “We can go back to the other question now, Jesse. Who is the person who uses your hand?”

  “I don’t know her name, but she knows who I am. We’ve met before.” An expression of wonder transforms Jesse’s face.

  “Now, I’m going to ask you another question, Jesse. It might not be easy, but I’d like you to try. Is that okay?”

  Jesse smiles seraphically. “Yes.”

  “How long since you have seen one another?”

  Jesse says nothing.

  “Can you hear me, Jesse? I’ll ask again. How long since you’ve seen the lady you’ve been listening to?”

  The girl in the chair breathes deeply. Her mouth moves but there’s no sound, as if it’s a struggle to form words.

  “Speak when you are ready. You’ll find it’s easy, so easy to talk to me.”

  “No, it is not easy.” The girl turns her head, and this time, that strange inspection is different.

  Rory sits forward. Feature by feature, he inspects Jesse’s face. And starts to sweat. The girl looks different. He stares at the tape counter as he says, “Why is that?”

  A laugh, lower than Jesse’s usual giggle. “Because this girl is not your servant. You may not command her as you wish to do. I shall not permit that.”

  Eyes closed, Jesse sits up as her left hand gropes until it finds his pen, and the notepad on the table. As she begins to draw, her face changes, becomes more and more happy.

  The woman’s face emerges on the page. It’s the eyes that catch him; shining as if lit from within, they look directly into his own with calm authority.

  Rory swallows. He makes an effort to take in the other details of the drawing. The woman’s wearing something on her head; the outline of the flowing shape, like a nun’s veil, defines her against the shadows behind. The dress below is sketched in—a darker block—and behind the woman’s shoulder the unmistakable outline of the keep rears up.

  “Relax now, Jesse, and put the pen down.”

  Jesse opens her hand and the pen drops to the table.

  “Lean back. Rest.”

  Obediently, the girl slumps against the upholstery, her head drifting to one side.

  “That’s very good. You’re so comfortable in the chair, it’s soft and welcoming and you feel warm and safe. Now I’ll count down from five to one, and when I reach one, you’ll answer the questions I ask, easily and happily. Five, more deeply relaxed than you’ve ever been; four, content and pleased to be here; three, each breath takes you deeper; two; and one. Body asleep, mind awake.” He stares at the girl’s blank face. “I’m going to ask you some more questions now, Jesse. And you’ll be happy to answer them so we can both understand more. Raise your hand if you understand.”

  Jesse’s left hand floats up from the arm of the chair.

  “Good, Jesse, very good.”

  The hand continues to hover.

  “You can put your hand down now.”

  It descends like a leaf.

  “First I want to be sure that you”—Rory stops, reframes the question—“that I am talking to Jesse Marley?”

  The reply is a giggle, Jesse’s giggle. “Of course you are. No one else is here.”

  Rory swallows. “You’ve drawn a lady in your picture. Is she a nun?”

  “No.” Jesse’s expression is amused as she turns her head, eyes closed, toward the piece of paper.

  “Did I ask a funny question?”

  Jesse hesitates, then shakes her head. “She’s never been asked if she’s a nun before. That makes her laugh.”

  “I thought you were here alone. Is the lady with you now?”

  Jesse’s expression changes. “Yes. She is, in a way, because she’s in the picture.”

  “Tell me more about the lady you’ve drawn. Her clothes are unusual.”

  “Not to her.”

  “Can you tell me her name?”

  Jesse doesn’t respond.

  “Do you know her name?”

  Jesse says reluctantly, “I’m not sure. But she came here to speak to me, to tell me the things I need to know.” Flexing her back, Jesse winces.

  Rory says quickly, “You’re feeling no discomfort, there’s nothing to hurt you, and you have no sensation of pain anywhere in your body.” The girl’s face relaxes as she settles. “Remember, Jesse, you don’t have to feel anything unless you want to.”

  But Jesse’s expression alters, her face suddenly anxious.

  Rory’s voice deepens and slows even more. “Feel yourself breathe, Jesse, in and out. In and out. There’s no anxiety, none at all. See the air as it enters your mouth, follow it down, down into your lungs. And breathe out. Watch the air, just like a pretty silver stream. Each breath takes you deeper, far deeper, to a safe and happy place.”

  On the arms of the chair, Jesse’s hands flutter.

  Rory tries again. “You’re looking down on what you want to see, Jesse, as if it’s a movie and you’re the director, way, way above the set. Describe what’s below—you’ll find it’s easy, really easy.”

  But Jesse’s expression is anxious. “It’s dark and cold down there. Really cold.” She hunches forward. “I don’t like this place. It’s unhappy. And there’s something . . .” She’s shivering violently.

  “See the breath, silver and warm. In and out, in and . . . out. That’s good. Describe what you see, Jesse. Like a picture.”

  “It looks like a man but . . . not really. He’s the wrong color and he’s in the air. He’s shining!” Jesse’s left hand reaches above her head as if to brush something away.

  “Remember the movie; this is your movie.”

  She moves her head from side to side. “I don’t like this.”

  “No need to worry, no need to feel anxious. Can you draw what you see?”

  Her face clears. “Yes.” She starts to sketch, the strokes quick and confident.

  Rory watches. His eyes widen.

  26

  WHAT HAPPENED?” Jesse sits up in the chair, blinking. “That felt different.”

  “In what way?”

  Jesse’s focus shifts as she tries to catch something elusive. “Just . . .” She struggles. “It wasn’t very happy, was it? At the end, I mean. In the beginning it was different.” She doesn’t want to tell him what she felt then—that sense of tenderness, of love without boundaries. It’s too precious to talk about.

  “You became a little anxious so I brought you out earlier than I’d planned. We made progress, though.”

  “Oh?” Jesse’s not sure. It feels like she’s walking an emotional high wire between light and dark.

  “I want to show you something. Two somethings.” He hands her the sketches. And watches.

  Jesse stares at the woman’s face first. Her eyes soften as she touches the paper.

  “How does this make you feel, Jesse?”

  “Happy. If she’s an anomaly, I’m glad.”

  “And this?” Rory gives her the second drawing.


  “I . . .” She hesitates. “I don’t know what it is.”

  Rory waits.

  “Is it a crucifix?” Jesse rations the words. “He looks real, though. Like he’s a real person.”

  A quick glance at Rory, and she puts the image down, picking up the first drawing again. “But this . . .”

  “This?” Rory speaks softly.

  Jesse shakes her head. She knows. She really does. This is the woman she dreams about, the one who was there when she was on the ventilator.

  “What do you think of when you look at her, Jesse?”

  There’s a jolt. “It’s hard to put into words.” That’s true. How do I say I know this face?

  Rory doesn’t push her. “Would you be okay with me showing the sketches to Alicia?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe she can help. She knows the history of Hundredfield better than anyone. Since you’ve drawn them here, they might mean something to her.”

  Jesse thinks about that. And nods. “But if you don’t mind, I think I need some air.” She gets up and almost stumbles toward the door, as if her legs have gone to sleep.

  Rory waits a moment before he strolls across to the windows. Minutes later, Jesse walks along the terrace outside. She doesn’t notice him. He watches her until she’s out of sight and goes back to the table. Picking up the drawing, he tries to make sense of what he sees.

  It looks like a man but . . . not really. He’s the wrong color and he’s in the air. He’s shining!

  He stares at the tape recorder, flicks rewind.

  Gibberish chatters as the tape goes backward. He’s watching the counter. Abruptly he hits STOP, and then PLAY.

  This girl is not your servant. You may not command her as you wish to do. I shall not permit that.

  Rory hits STOP again. He stares at his notes and writes, Who are you, Jesse Marley?

  She stares into the sky, right in the eye of the sun. When she drops her head, black dots obscure the world. A hand over her face, Jesse walks, just walks, trying not to think, staring at the ground as it slowly turns into what it should be, the cobbles of the inner ward as the ground begins to rise.

  Jesse stops. She’s come farther than she thought. In her cloud of unknowing, she’s begun to climb the path to the keep. She drew this view in the hospital, and the new sketch of the woman with the tower behind her seems to be of this same place.